


'Tis the Season

by ArtemisRayne



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Gift Giving, Hanukkah, Holidays, mentions of background Sprace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 19:12:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13037592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisRayne/pseuds/ArtemisRayne
Summary: It's been a long time since Davey's evening was interrupted by a knock on his bedroom window, so it surprises him when, mid-December, Jack Kelly tumbles through his window with a flurry of snowflakes and a badly-wrapped present."Happy, uh, Hanukkah?"*Modern Newsies holiday fluff*





	'Tis the Season

**Author's Note:**

> I was disappointed by the lack of Newsies holiday fics, so the logical solution was to write some. 
> 
> I don't know whether it's canon or just a widely accepted headcanon that the Jacobs are Jewish, but I jumped on board that train. I don't know enough about Hanukkah to write the full story I wanted to about the boys learning about each others' holiday traditions and still be able to do it justice, so this is just a bit of (hopefully) cute gift exchanging. 
> 
> Happy Holidays, Newsies! <3

It's been a long time since Davey's evening was interrupted by a knock at the bedroom window. They were a fairly regular occurrence during the summer but had tapered off as the weather turned colder and his new friends grew more comfortable around his family. There was really only one person who stuck with using the fire escape as an entrance, and even he had given up when autumn turned to winter.

So it startles Davey when, mid-December, a sharp rap at his window drags his attention up from his notebook. He glances over his shoulder and catches a profile through the crack in the curtains, enough to send him scrambling across the room. "What are you doing, you idiot?" Davey asks as he throws the window open.

A cascade of snowflakes follows Jack Kelly through the window as he tumbles awkwardly inside, laughing. "That ain't a very nice way to greet your best friend," Jack says from the floor. His hair is sticking out in damp spikes from beneath his knit cap and the cold has turned his cheeks and nose bright red.

"It is when he's an idiot," Davey responds, shutting the window with a definitive click. "You know I've got a front door, right?"

Jack is still laughing as he straightens himself out, standing up and dusting the snow off his clothes. "Where's the fun in that?" he says. "Thought it'd be cool to do it the old way, ya know?"

"You won't think it's fun when you get a cold," Davey says, but Jack's humor has always been contagious and he can't fight his own grin. He returns to his desk chair as Jack flops inelegantly onto the bed, making himself comfortable.

(And if that isn't a metaphor for their entire friendship, Davey doesn't know what is; from the very first day they met - at orientation for their summer job - Jack Kelly elbowed his way into Davey's life and set up shop. Six months later, he's so deeply rooted there, Davey's sure he couldn't get rid of him if he tried.

It's a good thing Davey isn't inclined to try.)

"Don't be such a buzzkill," Jack drawls with a dismissive wave of his hand, midway through removing his gloves. "And besides, ain't you the one who said it's a myth people get sick from the cold?" Davey scrunches up his nose; he probably did say that, but he doesn't want to give Jack the satisfaction. "'Sides, I didn't wanna bother your folks, and I saw your light was on."

"That’s what texting’s for,” Davey says, rolling his eyes. “And you’re lucky, I was just getting ready for bed.”

Jack's response is a loud and undignified snort of derision. "Oh _please_ ," he says at Davey's reproachful look. "You ain't going to bed anytime soon. You're writin'." He gestures pointedly at the open notebook on the desk. "I know how it is when ya get going. If I didn’t show up, you'd probably forget to sleep again."

"What are you doing over this late anyway?" Davey asks in lieu of a good response. He can't help that he gets caught up in his writing sometimes. Never as bad as Jack makes it sound, of course, but there've been a couple late nights. Not that Jack has any room to talk, either, the dirty hypocrite.

"Oh, 'cause I had to bring ya this," Jack says. He digs into an inner pocket of his coat and produces a small rectangular box, the brightly-colored wrapping paper covered in garish cartoon dinosaurs. "Uh, ignore the paper," Jack adds hastily. "Only otha paper Medda had was Christmas stuff, and I thought it might be offensive, you bein' Jewish and all."

Davey feels proud of himself that only a small laugh escapes him at that. "The paper's fine, Jack, but I can't-"

"And I don't know a bunch about Hanukkah and all, but then Crutchie tells me it was today, so I just had to get that to ya," Jack finishes, pointedly talking over him. It's a frequent tactic of his, cutting off Davey's arguments before he can even get started. It would be less annoying if it weren't so effective. "So here. Happy Hanukkah, Davey."

"You know Hanukkah's actually eight days long," Davey says, just to watch the flash of surprise and panic cross his best friend's face. Laughing, Davey accepts the package. "But thank you, Jack. Really, you didn't need to do this."

Jack shrugs. "Was doing my Christmas shoppin' anyway, and it didn't feel right not to getcha something," he says. "And I know I ain't the only one, eitha, so don't be too surprised if some of the other fellas swing by 'round Christmas."

Something fizzy and warm bubbles up in Davey's chest and he has to look down at the gift in his hands to make sure his eyes aren't watering. It's not that he's never had friends before, it's just that he's never felt so much like _part_ of something. Like he belongs exactly where he’s at. He never expected to find that when he'd taken the summer job at a rundown local fairground, but then, who ever finds miracles where they're actually looking anyway?

 _Actually, that'd make a good line for a story_ , Davey thinks, and he darts a glance at his notebook.

"Oh c'mon," Jack says, exasperated even as he laughs. "Ya can't give a guy five minutes 'fore you go back to your stories?"

"Sorry," Davey says immediately, flushing.

"Just shaddup and open it, wouldja?" Jack says, shaking his head, but there's enough fondness in his tone to ease Davey's conscience. "Then I'll hightail it, and you can go back to forgettin' to sleep again."

For some reason, Davey's hands are shaking slightly as turns the present over in his hands. It's a terrible wrapping job, asymmetrical and misaligned, which is all the more amusing considering it came from an artist. Davey tears at a flap, severing a poor triceratops in half, and out slides a sleek gray box. Honestly, it looks a bit like the box Sarah's boyfriend got her, the one with the fancy bracelet in it, and Davey frowns in confusion. Jack wouldn't get him jewelry; not only that, he knows Jack can't afford stuff like that anyway.

Curious despite himself, Davey carefully takes the top off the box and his heart stops. "Oh, Jack..."

"Is it weird?" Jack asks, and when Davey looks up, he catches a glimpse of the other Jack Kelly, the one only a blessed handful get to see; the one who's self-conscious and self-deprecating, who is genuine and cares too much for his own good. While Davey might have gotten caught up in the initial adrenaline rush that comes from running with the famous Jack Kelly, it's this side of him that made Davey stay.

"It's weird, isn't it?" Jack says, taking Davey's silence as affirmation. "I just - I didn't know what to getcha, and then I saw that, and I thought it'd be good. It's the sorta thing proper writers have, isn't it? 'Cause I know you're gonna be a real writer someday, Davey. You're too good not to. And so I thought that'd be, I dunno-"

"Jack!" Davey has to raise his voice to interrupt the other boy, and they both instinctively freeze, listening with bated breath. Once several seconds pass without any indication that they've woken his parents, Davey's eyes go back to the box in his hands.

Nestled on a bed of blue velvet is an elegant fountain pen, slim and silver, and engraved along the side in a bold calligraphy is _Davey Jacobs_.

"It's perfect," Davey says, and this time he knows his eyes are a bit watery but he doesn't care. He gingerly traces a fingertip along the inscription, almost afraid to touch it. It's the sort of silly, sentimental thing he would never have dreamed of actually buying for himself, but somehow it's so right it almost hurts.

Sometimes - well, _most_ times, really - Davey thinks he's stupid for wanting to be a writer. There's nothing practical or logical about it, and the odds of actually succeeding are astronomical. There are so many days where he thinks about giving it up and focusing on something else, something with less risk involved. It’d be so easy to settle and let writing become nothing more than a childish hobby he’ll eventually outgrow.

Then Jack Kelly bowled into his life with his grand dreams and boundless confidence, and he believes in Davey. It's more than just the unconditional support he gets from his parents, or the eager faith from the little brother who thinks Davey can do no wrong. Jack is the sort of person who's seen the bad side, who has no reason to still believe in magic and miracles and big dreams coming true. And from day one, Jack has believed in Davey.

"Jack, this is incredible," Davey says and finally looks up. Jack is frozen in the act of rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous tic, and there's a tentative hopefulness to his expression. Still, Davey can't help but feel something sink in his stomach as he rubs his thumb over the pen. Things like this don't come cheap, and Jack is a foster kid with a part-time job who saves up his every dollar. "But I can't- this must've been-”

"No." The word is firm but there's a warmth in Jack's gaze. "Nope. No take-backs."

Davey snorts a laugh despite himself. "What is this, kindergarten?"

"Shaddup," Jack says, grinning, and Davey can tell he’s pleased by the way his accent slides in stronger. He does a good job of speaking clearer most of the time, especially in public, but a relaxed Jack Kelly has a distinct New Yorker drawl. Davey’s always found it oddly charming, despite the fact that the terrible grammar makes him cringe a little inside. "'Sides, it's got your name on it. Who else is gonna want it? Nope, you's stuck with it now, Jacobs."

They're both smiling and Davey can feel that buzzy feeling coming back, a tingling in his chest like when you drink soda too fast and all the carbonation gets stuck. "A'ight, I'll letcha get back to that story 'fore ya lose your muse, or whatever," Jack says, standing up.

"Mom'll kill me if she finds out I let you walk home in that," Davey says and gestures to the window, where the gap in the curtains reveals the still steadily falling snow.

Jack's smile is mischievous as he tugs his hat back down over his ears. "That's only if she finds out," he responds with a wink. "Far as your folks know, I was never here."

Davey scoffs and shakes his head. "Fine, but at least text me when you get home so I know you didn't freeze to death in some alleyway?"

"Yes, _Mom_ ," Jack intones sarcastically. Laughing, Davey cuffs him around the back of the head and gets shoved over onto the bed in reply. By the time Davey is upright again, Jack's already out of the window and climbing down the fire escape. Davey shuts the window and watches until the dark speck that is his best friend disappears around the corner.

Crossing back to his desk, Davey carefully lifts the pen from its box and cradles it between his fingers. He's never been the sort to spend extra money on pens; his favorite time of year is when all the stores have Back to School sales and he can buy the bulk boxes of Papermates and Bics for cheap. Still, there's something almost _empowering_ about the sight of the fountain pen between his long fingers. This isn't just a casual writing instrument, this is a tool of the craft.

Like Jack said, it's the sort of thing a proper writer would own.

Davey turns to a blank page in his notebook and very deliberately signs his name along the top line. The pen glides smoothly, the ink spreading with a slight depth that seems to add extra curl to the shapes. It makes his normal signature somehow fancy and official looking, like a real author's autograph.

He's still giddily practicing his signature when his cell phone vibrates on the corner of the desk. Davey picks it up and unlocks the screen to read the text.

_Jack: im dead behind the laundromat btw. total icicle. cops gonna have to defrost me like a turkey_

_Davey: You are a turkey._

_Jack: shut up :P dont stay up all nite shakespeare. test in Weasels class tomorow._

_Davey: I know. Thanks for letting me know you died. And just, thanks again._

_Jack: happy hanukkah davey. Gnight ;)_

_Jack: and thank god 4 autocorrect cause i had no idea how to spell that_

Laughing, Davey tosses his phone onto the bed so he can plug it into the charger in a minute. His heart is racing and there's the beginnings of a plan formulating in the back of his mind. He gently sets his new pen back into its box and then crosses the room to fish out the envelope of wrinkled bills from the back of his sock drawer. He's got twelve days and a bit of shopping to do.

* * *

Davey readjusts his grip on the plastic grocery sack, shuffling uncertainly on the doorstep of the Larkin house. He texted Crutchie - one of Jack's foster brothers - ahead of time to make sure that it was alright for him to come over, but he still feels a bit awkward showing up at someone's house on Christmas Eve. It's hard not to feel like an intrusion, with all the fuss people make about Christmas.

When the door opens to reveal Medda Larkin, Davey once again finds himself feeling the same flash of overwhelming surprise that she always seems to give him. Miss Medda has the sort of presence that can be felt from miles away, a natural ability to walk into a room and draw everyone's eyes. She would say it's from a lifetime of acting on stage, but Davey suspects it's just part of who she is. 

Today, the boisterous woman is decked out in a shimmery red blouse, and her black curls are tied back in a festive ribbon. "Hello Davey," she says with a bright smile, shepherding him inside. "Charlie said you might come by."

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," Davey says.

"You know you're always welcome here, honey," Medda says. She purses her lips thoughtfully, a playful twinkle in her eyes. “You gonna be offended if I wish you Merry Christmas?”

Davey laughs. “Of course not.”

“Good, ‘cause I was gonna do it anyway,” says Medda and she envelopes him in a hug. Davey grins and hugs her back, well used to her mother-bear tendencies by now. As something of a professional foster mother, Medda is used to taking care of people; she’s made it her life mission to take in the older boys who get overlooked for adoption, giving them a stable place to get through high school. Davey learned quickly that her mothering extends not just to her foster boys but to all of their friends as well.

“Alright, well Jack’s up in his room,” Medda says, patting Davey’s cheek fondly when she finally lets him go. “Oh and before you go home, there’s a cookie tray for your family on the counter. Grab it on your way out, okay?”

“Thanks, Miss Medda,” Davey says. “Are Spot and Crutchie here?”

Medda smiles. “Sean dragged Charlie to Mass with him,” she says. Davey can’t stop his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “Apparently Anthony invited him, but he didn’t want to show up alone.”

“Ah, gotcha,” Davey says and the pair exchange knowing looks. Jack’s foster brother Sean – more commonly known as Spot – has had something of a long-term will-they-won’t-they relationship with their friend Anthony "Racetrack" Higgins. Everyone knows that they like each other, but neither of them seems to have the nerve to make that final step. “Well, in that case,” Davey says, and he digs three of the little packages out of his bag, “this one’s for you, and can you get these ones to Spo- Sean and Charlie?”

“You’re such a sweetheart,” Medda says as she accepts the gifts.

“Merry Christmas, Miss Medda,” Davey replies, flushing slightly self-consciously. He slips past her and climbs up the staircase, heading for the bedroom at the end of the hall. The door is shut, but there’s light pouring out from underneath. Davey taps his knuckles against the door, and when there’s no response, he opens the door a crack. The sight that greets him makes a smile steal across his features.

He’s been over enough times that Jack’s bedroom is familiar; one half is the bedroom proper, with an unmade bed and a heap of clothes at the bottom of the closet, while the other half has been converted into a makeshift art studio. A drafting desk stands against one wall, several half-finished sketches tacked to the surface, and a large box houses a variety of finished paintings. In the other corner, beneath a row of makeshift track lights, is a large canvas on an easel. Jack is hard at work on the canvas, and Davey can see the string of his headphones where they disappear beneath the collar of his paint-speckled tee-shirt.

Raising his voice, Davey half-shouts, “Knock knock.”

Jack startles and glances over his shoulder, then tugs out a headphone with a grin. “Hey, sorry, didn’t hear ya.”

“I figured,” Davey says with a shrug. His gaze slips passed Jack to the canvas and his lips part in surprise. Instead of the sweeping landscapes Jack usually favors, the impressionistic blurs of color depict a brightly decorated courtyard and an immense evergreen surrounded by towers of glass and steel. Even half-finished, Davey recognizes the scene. “Rockefeller Plaza?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, moving over to the side table where his supplies are and dipping his brush in the water. Then he looks up at Davey’s expression and frowns slightly. “Why? S’it bad?”

“No, it’s beautiful,” Davey says immediately. He takes a step closer, picking out the flecks of color on the enormous ice rink that signify ice skaters in their brightly colored coats. He seems to have been in the middle of detailing the tree, tiny specks of gold scattered amid the dark branches. “Really, it’s great,” he finishes. “Just surprised me. It’s not, you know, Santa Fe or something.”

Jack chuckles self-consciously, rubbing the back of his neck. Davey bites his lip to hide a laugh when the motion smears a bit of paint below the other boy’s ear. “Was just feelin’ like doin’ something festive,” Jack says and shrugs again. “Saw it on the news and, I dunno, seemed like a good idea.”

“It’s _really_ good,” Davey insists because somehow Jack’s endless confidence does not fully extend to his artistic abilities.

“Anyway,” Jack says, going back to washing the paint off his hands, “what’s up? Didn’t ‘spect to see ya today.”

Davey laughs and fidgets with the handle of the grocery sack, suddenly nervous. “Oh, well, see the thing is, I’ve got this totally crazy best friend who got me a really amazing Christmas present for Hanukkah,” he explains, prompting a laugh from Jack. “So now you get a bit of Hanukkah for Christmas.”

“What’s’is?” Jack asks when Davey holds the bag out to him.

“Well the thing about Hanukkah is, it’s not really a gift-giving kind of holiday,” Davey says. “Or it never used to be, really, but since it’s so close to Christmas, I guess the presents thing got a little contagious. But since Hanukkah is eight days long, we tend to go more for getting eight small presents instead of one big one.” He emphasizes this by pointedly offering out the bag again.

“Ya didn’t hafta do nothin’ like that,” Jack says but he accepts the bag. He pulls out one present and immediately breaks into a fit of giggles. “I like the paper,” he comments and Davey grins; he’d intentionally picked a ridiculous blue and silver paper covered in childish dreidels. Jack hesitates for a second and then crosses the room, sitting down on the bed. As he settles the bag of presents next to his knee, Davey sits down opposite him.

Jack shows all the restraint of a toddler in tearing off the wrapping paper, shredded bits flying in every direction. Inside the first package is a set of paintbrushes; the second, a box of new charcoals; the third has a rainbow assortment of oil pastels. More various art supplies are revealed as he gets through each new package until he finally reaches the last and largest one, a sketchbook with an embossed ‘K’ on the hardcover.

“I hope they’re good,” Davey says a bit hesitantly. “I don’t know which brands are good, so I had to ask the lady at the store for help.”

“This is awesome, Davey,” Jack says enthusiastically. He opens the pouch of paintbrushes and rubs a finger over the tips, feeling the way the delicate hairs bend beneath his touch. “Seriously, this is the best.”

Davey’s usual eloquence is momentarily stunned under the power of Jack’s ecstatic grin, and it takes him a second to remember what he wanted to say. “Good, because I know you’re going to be a professional artist someday,” he says. “And if I can do something to help that, even if it’s just some art supplies, I want to do that, because if I ever do become a real writer, it’s going to be because of you.”

“Awh, Davey, you’re making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside,” Jack teases, but there’s a genuine gratitude under his smile. Davey shoves him playfully and is promptly tackled, Jack using his broader stature to pin Davey and ruffle his hair the way he knows drives Davey crazy. It’s several minutes later before they collapse in a jumble on the mattress, both of them panting between fits of giggles.

“Really, though, these is great,” Jack says when he catches his breath. “So excited to try those new brushes, gonna make details so much betta. Most my other brushes’s fallin’ apart.” Grinning, he nudges Davey with a knee. “Merry Christmas, Davey.”

Davey laughs. “Happy Hanukkah, Jacky.”

Jack sits up and his smile turns mischievous. “C’mon, I know where Medda hid the extra Christmas cookies.” And Davey doesn’t question it when he jumps up to follow, because they are a pair, Jack and Davey. Together, they can do anything. They can both follow their dreams. They can take on the world.

And they can definitely sneak out the rest of Medda's cookies from the kitchen.


End file.
